


Jeu de Langues

by NYCScribbler



Category: Languages (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Language, Original Female Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:58:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8864398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NYCScribbler/pseuds/NYCScribbler
Summary: Anna's ready to take the next step in her career.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angharad_crewe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angharad_crewe/gifts).



Anna felt the sweat starting to form on her palms, and before it could go too far, she ran her hands down the sides of her coal black dress slacks. Everything had to be perfect. She had one chance to make a good first impression on the boss. She couldn't look flustered, couldn't look like the moment was too much for her, couldn't _let_ the moment be too much for her.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, to find the calm at her center. Her lips formed the word without sound, without conscious thought. _Un._ One, the beginning, vibrating on her tongue, and in a back corner of her mind, she felt a drawer opening.

_Deux. Trois._ Three people had warned her that Kent Worthington was as old-fashioned as it came with the Service, that she would have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition. She had ignored them. After all, he wouldn't have asked for her if he didn't respect her credentials, and no one could deny her credentials. She had to remember that. She couldn't deny her own credentials, after all.

_Quatre. Cinque. Six. Sept._ She had spent her summers filing to make money through college, and the archives' storage system had stuck in her memory. She envisioned the seven tall bookcases, the dark brushed steel of their sides, the slight curve of the overburdened shelves, the sharp triangles of wire separating the sections, the crank on each bookcase with its worn handle. In her mind, the cranks turned and the shelves slid on their tracks as she accessed the records she needed.

_Huit. Neuf. Dix._ People said her method of compartmentalizing was strange, perhaps even unhealthy- but those people didn't understand her work, and how important it was for her to keep her thoughts organized. It helped her develop proper habits in her actions and behavior.

A voice jolted her out of her reverie. She heard her name, but for a moment the words didn't make sense. She turned the crank slightly, enough to pull out the file she needed, and realized that the receptionist was telling her that Worthington was ready to see her.

She rose from the chair and strode forward. "Mr. Worthington? It's an honor to meet you in person," she said.

She thought something that might have been a smile played around his mouth for a moment, but she dismissed the thought just as quickly. Everything she'd heard about him indicated that he was not the kind of person to be casually and quickly impressed, nor would he give any indication of having been impressed even if he had been, nor would he have changed expression so blatantly. "Please take a seat, Miss Miller." His accent was more natural than hers- Parisian by way of the Continent, she thought, instead of Parisian by way of a Brit teaching in the States.

She sat down in the indicated chair. It was firmer than it appeared, guaranteed to leave the person sitting in it with a vague sense of discomfort and no real way to alleviate it. She didn't doubt for a moment that it was anything other than intentional. Someone less prepared, someone without her training, would fidget and squirm; someone truly undisciplined would do anything to cut the meeting short. She folded her hands in her lap and said nothing, waiting for Worthington to initiate further conversation.

He opened the folder in front of him and said, "Your CV is impressive, especially for a woman of your age. Even in a service where multilingualism is prized, your listing stands out. The breadth of your knowledge is especially unusual."

There was a pause, and she filled it. "Thank you, sir."

"Your references are also impeccable. And that means nothing to me. I need to read you for myself, Miss Miller. What brought you here? What is your reason for being?"

As always, she chose her words carefully, bringing them up from the back of her throat, running them over her tongue, weighing them in her mouth, before letting them emerge. "Words have power. Yes, actions are worth more than words, but how often do words lead to actions? I've found that the right word in the right place- or the wrong word, or at the wrong time- can lead to some spectacular effects. The more I know, the more I can do; the more levers I have, the more ways I have to move the world."

"So you believe the world needs moving?"

"The world _always_ needs moving, Mr. Worthington. Otherwise, there is no progress, no? And are we not here to change the world and leverage it as we see fit?" Her confidence grew with every moment of the verbal fencing; not for the first time, she thought there was a reason French was the language of diplomacy. Here, even the strongest threats were gloved in the lilting velvet of the tongue.

Again, there was that expression that a less experienced observer would have mistaken for a smile. "As you see fit, or as we see fit?" he asked.

She lifted her head and looked down her nose at him. "As I see fit to pursue our objectives," she said. "If I'm to go out in the field, I have to be trusted to carry out my duties without constantly running back for instructions."

"And how do you think a background in archival research will translate into field work in a foreign nation?" he asked, with a condescending edge to his words. She couldn't tell if it was a put-on to put her on the defensive, or if he truly believed that her experience was irrelevant; one of the first things she had learned was to never believe what her colleagues wanted her to believe.

"I associate quickly and efficiently. I absorb many small details and put them together into an accurate, complete picture. In the Hagiwara case, I was able to reverse course on the established hypothesis and prevent a catastrophic mistake that would have exposed two of our assets and mistakenly burned two more." _In spite of McNamara,_ she didn't say, though she knew that Worthington knew what McNamara had almost done and the protest she had filed against him.

Worthington allowed an eyebrow to rise. "I had forgotten you were involved with the Hagiwara affair," he said, and she knew he was lying, and they both knew that she knew that he was lying. Those were the games they played, no matter what language they were in.

She took another deep breath, because this would be a riskier proposition. _Odin, dva, tri..._ The shelves of her mind slid on their tracks, just enough for her to pull out the file she needed. _Chetyre, pjat'..._

She looked over at Worthington and, with a smile, said, "I trust I have proven myself to you? I've shown you my credentials and shown you my references. If you need more time to make your decision, you know where to find me. If not, please give me my next assignment." The words came out as she knew they would- deeper, calmer, with a little bit of an edge in the hard consonants; here she could let out a tinge of the anger that simmered under the surface of her professional façade, pent-up at every dismissal of her skills. She could play the game- she was good at the game- much of the time she even enjoyed the fencing of wits and the multiple meanings interlaced into every sentence. But sometimes it grew tedious; being underestimated was a professional asset but a source of personal frustration. Somehow, she had less patience for it when she was in her Russian mindset than when she was in her French mindset.

He stared at her, showing the first honest surprise she had seen from him. She kept the smile on. "I studied your files too, sir. French and Japanese we have in common, and someday I'd love to hear about your work in Osaka. But you don't speak Russian, and you don't speak Polish, and for all you know I'm cursing you out. Except we both know better, don't we?"

Her point made, she eased back in the uncomfortable chair, counting backwards in her mind until she was back at _un_. "Have I your leave to go, sir?" she asked, feeling the lightness of the words on the tip of her tongue, the consonants dancing there as they faded into the raised vowels. Though she wouldn't let on, she felt a little bit of a headrush from the rapid switching, and she knew that it would take a little while to switch all the way back to English.

"I think I've seen and heard all I need from you," he said, dismissive again. "You'll be contacted when your next assignment is decided. Have a nice day."

The papers so ostentatiously picked up from the desk told her that he was done, and she gave him a polite nod of acknowledgment before leaving the office. She smiled at the receptionist, who seemed surprised that anyone was coming out of there happy, and headed back to her apartment.

After all, she had packing to do. The only question was whether it would be the position in London, the job in Moscow, or the slot in Tokyo…

**Author's Note:**

> Will we see the multilingual adventures of Anna? Perhaps.


End file.
